


to live for the hope of it all

by harsassypotters



Series: wanting was never enough [2]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Injury, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arthur Knows About Merlin's Magic (Merlin), Arthur Pendragon Has Braincells (Merlin), Arthur Pendragon With Character Development (Merlin), Episode: s04e06 A Servant of Two Masters, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, also will's death is not completely forgotten, and last but certainly not least are my two favorite tropes, basically they have to deal with the consequences of bottling up all their emotions, c'mon y'all lets make this a tag, post-episode, slight whump, so there's a lot of screaming and crying and hugging
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-13
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-13 14:48:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29403645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/harsassypotters/pseuds/harsassypotters
Summary: Losing Merlin in the rockfall at the Valley of the Fallen Kings, just after discovering he was a sorcerer, was hard. Finding Merlin close to death in the middle of the forest--next to a dragon, of all things--was even harder. And the quest to figure out what exactly Merlin's been hiding all these years is going to be harder still. But Arthur Pendragon is nothing if not stubborn, and he'll be damned if he doesn't at least try.Sequel toyou weren’t mine to lose.
Relationships: Aithusa & Merlin & Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Merlin & Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Series: wanting was never enough [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2130705
Comments: 38
Kudos: 121





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I never actually planned on writing a sequel, but once a plot bunny digs its claws into you, it takes hours of furiously typing on the computer to make it go away :D
> 
> Title from August by Taylor Swift.

By the time Arthur reaches Camelot, one arm wrapped firmly around Merlin's sleeping, prone form in front of him to stop him from slipping off, night has fallen. He could have arrived sooner, if he had not stopped so often--but even though Merlin is breathing smoother now and the flush in his cheeks from when Arthur found him with the dragon has all but faded away, he can't help the spike of panic that shoots through his heart like a well-aimed arrow every time he misses a single beat of Merlin's heart. He had had to stop multiple times to reassure himself that  _ yes, Merlin is alive, he's here right now, he will never leave again _ .

Oh  _ god,  _ losing Merlin was terrifying. The lurch he felt in his stomach when he woke up to the juxtaposition of a servant who was not Merlin--because Merlin was  _ gone, gone, gone _ , and might never come back--still sits heavily in his stomach, a knot he doesn't know how to start untangling.

The streets are mostly deserted at this time of night, and there's no one to see as Arthur slides down from his horse, hands always on Merlin's sides to stop him from imbalancing. Helping Merlin down is almost as hard as helping him up, because he has to account for lolling limbs and sharp elbows to make sure Merlin doesn't slip, but eventually he manages it. He gathers Merlin in his arms--one arm under his shoulders, one under his knees--and carries him through the courtyard and into the citadel. 

Light is still filtering from the crack of Gaius's door, as Arthur knew it would--the old man has hardly slept since Merlin was taken, always waiting with a wide array of medicinal supplies. Arthur edges the door open with his foot, tilting to the side as he enters to avoid making Merlin hit his head on the door.

"Sire," Gaius says, jerking up out of his seat with an aborted gasp, "is Merlin--is Merlin dead?"

"No, no," Arthur says, ignoring how his heart drums with panic at the words, "he's fine. Just sleeping." He walks to the patient cot and lays Merlin gently down upon it, fingers brushing Merlin's skin as he pulls away. It's warm, and he lets it seep into his own fingers. Warmth is good. Warmth is human. Warmth is life.

Gaius walks over and begins checking Merlin over, pressing a hand to his forehead and hissing with alarm when he pulls up his shirt to reveal the motley of scars from the mace. Arthur can admit it looks horrible, deep purple fading out to yellow before fading back to purple, but it's a huge improvement from when he was first hit.

Thanks to a dragon. Oh, god, an actual dragon. Whom Arthur cannot help but feel a soft spot for, the calloused, rough memories from the dragon attack years ago melting away, inexplicably, to a sort of… fondness.

“Did he wake up while he was riding with you?” Gaius asks, pulling Arthur roughly out of his thoughts.

“No,” Arthur says, “but he mumbled some words. I couldn’t tell what they were, though.” Which is a lie. The words still ring in his ears:  _ magic  _ and  _ Arthur  _ and  _ Aithusa _ . Arthur still can’t quite understand why they made his arm tighten protectively around Merlin shaking form instead of trembling with fear. 

Gaius’s fingers continue dancing over the edges of Merlin’s wound, his brow creasing with worry. "Relatively speaking, sire, his wound doesn't seem...so horrible," he remarks. "Based on what you said--”

“What did I say?”

Gaius glances up at him, and there is something--confusion, suspicion, blame--in his gaze that Arthur cannot quite read. “When you came back from the Valley of the Fallen Kings. You described Merlin’s wound to be...much worse. Crushed bones, you said. Internal bleeding, most likely.”

Arthur's heart lurches almost dizzyingly, and he has to fight the urge to grip the side of the table for support. “I must have exaggerated, in my worry,” he says evenly. “The damage must have seemed bigger in my mind.”

“Are you sure, sire?” Gaius presses. “Because you said it would be unlikely for him to survive the night. And there is no natural way he could have healed so quickly.”

Merlin tenses, then, sucking in a sharp breath and muttering something unintelligible under his breath. Gaius is leaning down next to him immediately, wetting a cloth and bringing it to Merlin’s forehead, pulling blankets around him. Arthur is selfishly pleased for the distraction, for the chance to organize his thoughts. 

Gaius must know about Merlin’s magic--there is no possible way he could not, with all his excuses for Merlin’s sporadic absences. But somehow, Arthur cannot bring himself to admit it aloud. In the forest, the magic had seemed like a secret, a sacred knowledge known only by him and Merlin and the dragon. 

But now--in his castle, with stones hewn by his ancestors and floors walked upon by hundreds of feet and a throne room only a few hallways away--the magic feels real in a way it had not before, like a boulder compared to water slipping gently through his fingers. Arthur will have to study magic, to fight for it, as he promised the dragon--and how strange that he feels entitled to such a vow--as the ghost of his father leers over him from every pillow on the throne and every goblet of his favorite wine on the table.

His heart is speeding, pumping, pounding in the way it does before a battle, except here there is no enemy he can plunge a sword towards.

All he can really do is run away, back to the forest, where he can dip his feet into the water and lie down on soft grass and pretend that that is all there is of the world.

Which is so unbelievably stupid that Arthur would like to dig his fingers into his arm deep enough to draw blood. Merlin lived with this weight every day, of lies and schemes that see no hope of ending, and he never ran away.

Almost subconsciously, Arthur drifts closer to Merlin, placing a tentative finger on his cheek and stroking it, a slow, rhythmic movement across sweaty, smooth skin. 

Merlin quiets almost immediately, exhaling and relaxing into the mattress. His eyelids flutter, and for a heart-soaring moment Arthur thinks he will wake, but they do not completely open.

“I must have exaggerated the worry in my mind,” Arthur repeats, the words foggy and distant to his own ears. “He was similar to this when I found him. Really, Gaius, there is no need to worry.”

A beat. “Of course, sire.” Then Gaius is moving away, collecting a few supplies. Arthur is suddenly torn with the need to help him, to help Merlin, to show this strange gratefulness that is overcoming him.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” he asks. “Unless...unless of course you don’t need me...if you’re fine…” He trails off awkwardly.

Gaius turns, giving him an appraising look. “I made broth before you came, sire,” he says. “You can feed it to him while I make some medicine for the pain.”

Arthur nods, trying not to seem too awkward as he moves forward to retrieve the mug of broth that Gaius proffers to him. He wraps his fingers around it as he moves to sit next to Merlin, letting the heat sink into his skin.

Feeding Merlin is familiar from the forest, and he lets himself slip into the ritual with the ease of someone who feels like he has done it all his life. He props Merlin up on a few pillows, then pinches his nose and tips some of the broth into his mouth when it instinctively parts. 

Merlin splutters around the taste at first, but Arthur murmurs, “Come on, Merlin, it’s okay, it’ll help you,” and Merlin reluctantly swallows, Arthur massaging his neck to make sure it goes down. He does not overlook how vulnerable Merlin is like this, the hollow of his throat exposed to any knife or sword, and he squeezes Merlin’s shoulder.

When the mug is done and Merlin has settled back down onto the mattress, Arthur leans back in his chair, barely noticing as he slips off into sleep.

  
  
  


Arthur wakes with a start, blinking, trying to get his bearings. It’s only when his gae falls on Merlin does he understand why he woke so abruptly--Merlin is shaking, thrashing his head from side to side, mumbling under his breath again. But his breathing is shorter this time, on this side of wakefulness, and his eyelids are fluttering.

Fully awake now, Arthur leans down next to him, shaking Merlin’s shoulder. “Merlin, wake up,” he says, hardly daring to hope, his foot bouncing on the ground. “Come on, follow my voice, now. Wake up.”

There were many ways, over the course of his time with Merlin in the forest, that Arthur had imagined Merlin waking up. Usually it was slowly, other times it was a snap to attention.

None of those situations prepared him for  _ this _ : Merlin lurching up in bed and  _ screaming _ , long and hard, like there’s a fire inside of him, like a weapon is carving out his insides. 

“Merlin!” Arthur exclaims, hands darting out, caught between wanting to touch him and wanting to stay away. He makes the decision in a split second, grabbing Merlin’s shoulders, fingers digging in. “Merlin,  _ calm down _ , it’s me, it’s just me, it’s Arthur.” 

But Merlin doesn’t stop, doesn’t even falter, and before he knows it, Arthur is slapping a hand over Merlin’s mouth and forcing his head to look at Arthur. 

Merlin’s pupils are dilated, barely seeing, and when they focus in on Arthur, there is something unspeakable in them--rage, fury, grief. It makes Arthur feel like freezing water has just been poured down his back. Surprisingly, though, his screams quiet, until there is nothing but warm breath pushing on Arthur’s palm. Once he’s sure that Merlin will not scream again, Arthur retracts his hand and warily sits back in his chair, ignoring how his stomach knots.

“Aithusa,” Merlin spits immediately. “Arthur,  _ where is Aithusa _ ? What did you  _ do with her _ ? If you killed her, I’ll kill you, I swear, I’ll rip you apart to shreds--”

“ _ Merlin _ ,” Arthur says, feeling lost, like he’s missed a step or two or ten in the dark. “Merlin, I don’t know what you’re talking about--” He looks around desperately for Gaius, but he’s gone, most likely to collect more supplies for Merlin. 

“Don’t lie to  _ me _ !” Merlin bellows, and the air starts to thicken with what must be Merlin’s magic, lashing out.

“I’m  _ not _ . I don’t know who Aithusa is, or what--”

“The  _ dragon _ ,” Merlin says, eyes narrowed. “That you were  _ pointing a sword  _ at and  _ threatening  _ what must be less than forty-eight hours ago.”

Oh.  _ Oh.  _ Arthur feels strangely flustered and stupid for not figuring it out before. Aithusa must be the name of the dragon. In retrospect, it seems only logical that it--no,  _ her,  _ Aithusa sounds like a feminine name--would have one, but somehow, it had just...never occurred to him.

“The dragon--” Arthur swallows. “Aithusa is safe, Merlin. I didn’t kill her, I promise. I didn’t harm her. She’s fine, she’s still in the forest. I couldn’t bring her to Camelot with me, obviously, but she’s fine. Once I figured out that she was healing you, not...I don’t know, harming you in some way, I left her alone. She helped me, actually. Hunted for me.”

Merlin’s breaths slow almost imperceptibly, and he leans back on his elbows, watching Arthur with an expression he can’t decipher. “If you’re lying to me,” he says, finally, “you’re going to regret it, Arthur. I can promise you that.”

If Merlin had said that before, Arthur would have laughed. Hard. But now he just looks down at the ground, his stomach yawning into a pit. “I know, Merlin. But I give you my word that she’s fine.”

Silence stretches between them like a valley. Arthur has a feeling he should break it, but he doesn’t know how to. 

“Why?” Merlin asks, slowly, as if the word is foreign on his lips.

Arthur looks up. “Why what?”

“Why are you so fine with having spent time with a  _ dragon _ ? Why are you so fine with  _ me _ ?” He makes a vague gesture with his hands. “Why am I sitting here, on Gaius’s patient cot, instead of in a cell, clad in chains? Like all the other sorcerers?”

Arthur tenses, his stomach falling into a deep pit at the words. “You’re my friend, Merlin. I wouldn’t do that to you.”

“Really?” Merlin says, sounding unimpressed. “Because Will was  _ my  _ friend, and that didn’t stop you from calling him  _ evil  _ and  _ untrustworthy _ , even though he  _ saved your life _ .”

Arthur cringes at the memory. God, how arrogant he had been back then, so sure that the world was divided by clear black-and-white lines, that his father was on one end and everyone who opposed him was on the other. It had been one of many memories he had turned over and over in his mind in the forest, the one that truly made him understand,  _ There’s a reason Merlin never told you _ .  _ There’s a reason you never deserved the truth _ .

“I’m sorry,” Arthur says. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

Merlin snorts. “You think? Because his funeral pyre hadn’t even gone  _ out  _ yet, and you were calling him a liar. To my face. To his best friend’s face.”

“I know,” Arthur says. “And nothing I say will make up for it, but god, Merlin, I’m so sorry.”

Merlin’s breathing heavily, looking at Arthur as if he doesn’t quite understand him. Everything about this exchange strikes Arthur as  _ wrong _ \--Merlin is supposed to be maddeningly cheerful, innocent, not looking like he will tear the world apart if Arthur makes one wrong move. “I suppose you want to know, then?” Merlin says. “Why I never told you?”

“No, not really,” Arthur says. “I understand why you never did. It was your secret. And with all the things I did--I didn’t deserve it, anyway. Not one bit.”

“Mmm.” The look is still there, like Merlin thinks Arthur is an interesting puzzle, one he has yet to crack. “So, what changed?”

“Hm?”

“One day, you’re perfectly willing to kill anyone who uses magic, and now you’re apologizing to me. A  _ sorcerer _ . Who smacked you upside the head while I was in the forest?”

“Oh,” Arthur says, flushing. “A lot of things, I guess. It’s hard to explain.”

Merlin’s gaze softens, just slightly. “Start at the beginning, then.”

Arthur inhales deeply, then exhales. Right. He can do this. It’s not hard.

“In the Valley of the Fallen Kings, when you caused that rockfall--that damn rockfall that separated me from you and the mercenaries--your eyes turned gold. You used magic.”

“Yes, strangely enough, I’m aware of that.”

Arthur ignores him. “And I think I was angry, a bit. Hurt, definitely. But most of all, I was  _ terrified. _ ”

“Of me?”

“No.” Arthur shakes his head. “ _ For  _ you. I found the rest of the knights, and rode back to Camelot with them, but I can barely remember that.” It was all just a blur, the clearest memory being of his heart pounding with adrenaline that begged to be used. “Because I couldn’t stop thinking about you, if you were alright, if you were  _ dead _ . I didn’t know if your--if your magic would be enough to protect you.

“And when I arrived here again, and woke up to another servant, I didn’t really care about it anymore. I just wanted you back, and then I could hug you or scream at you or throw you in the stocks. Maybe all three. But you would be alive, and that’s all I really wanted. It’s hard to be angry at a dead man.”

Merlin snorts.

“When I found you, with--with Aithusa, and when I figured out she wasn’t hurting you...god, I was so relieved. And I was hurt, so hurt, that you hid a  _ dragon  _ from me.”

“Do you blame me for that?” Merlin sounds honestly curious.

“No. I had a lot of time to think--shut  _ up _ , Merlin, don’t smirk at me--and I was remembering things, like...like Will’s death, and what I said to you. And all the times I killed sorcerers. And then that led me to thinking about  _ why  _ you would try to help me, when I did all that, and...mostly I felt guilty. So guilty.”

“You shouldn’t,” Merlin says. “I mean, yes, you  _ should  _ feel guilty for killing those sorcerers, but me saving you shouldn’t make you feel guilty. That was my choice.”

Arthur shrugs. “Still. But anyway, it wasn’t long before I started thinking about magic. In general. Mostly about the old man, strangely enough.”

Merlin’s eyebrow rises infinitesimally. “The one who killed your father?”

“That’s the one. And what he said to me--something along the lines of just wanting to live freely, I don’t really remember. But it made me think that maybe not all sorcerers were evil. I mean,  _ you  _ certainly weren’t, and--”

“Why?”

“Merlin, you can’t just keep asking  _ why  _ without expounding.”

Merlin makes a disgruntled sound. “Is there a reason you didn’t think I was evil? A reason you felt hurt, not angry?”

Arthur shrugs. “Like I said, I couldn’t really think that much about the magic while you were missing, and when I found you--god, Merlin, when I found you, you were so  _ weak.  _ Pale and feverish and sweaty, in the middle of the bloody forest. Close to death.” He blinks, surprised to find tears stinging the back of his eyes. “It was hard to see you as anything but human then. As anything but  _ you _ , with your damnedly cheerful smiles and your completed  _ inability  _ to understand social hierarchy.”

Merlin laughs suddenly, though it quickly fades. “Was that how bad I was? I don’t really remember anything, just dreaming. And feeling hot. And, I think...someone was feeding me?”

“Mmm, yes. That was me.” He pauses. “What were you dreaming about?”

A beat. “A pyre, I think. I dreamed that you were angry. Which made  _ me  _ really angry. And afraid.” A shiver goes through him, and Arthur notices the sweat smeared across his brow. He’s propped up on his elbows, but they’re shaking. Merlin is still weak after days of injury and fever, no matter what anger-induced adrenaline his body is filled with.

“Lay down,” Arthur says, patting the cot. “You’re still weak.”

Merlin does, after one second of hesitation, his teeth gritted as he lowers himself down. Arthur takes it as progress. “And I just want you to know, Merlin,” he says lowly, “that I’ll never burn you. Or harm you in...any way.”

“Yeah. I know.” Merlin closes his eyes, and Arthur would think he had fallen asleep if he did not continue, “What were you saying about the old man?”

“Oh. It just made me think...maybe not all sorcerers are evil. Maybe they’re just...afraid. Grief-stricken.” He pauses. “And Aithusa helped, too.”

“Ah.” Merlin smiles slightly, looking wistful. “Yes, she’s wonderful, isn’t she?”

“Yeah,” Arthur says. “It’s quite difficult to want to murder a baby, even if she’s a dragon.” He doesn’t add the way she had seemed almost ethereal as she flew, the way that when she curled up next to Merlin, placing a protective paw on his arm, Arthur couldn’t scavenge a shred of anger or hatred. 

Time goes by in silence, Arthur counting the seconds. It feels like he and Merlin are in a dangerous precipice, and he doesn’t know which way they are going to drop. If they are going to drop at all.

Finally, Merlin says, “Arthur, don’t take this the wrong way, but...can you please leave?”

“What?”

“It’s nothing personal,” Merlin mumbles. His eyes are still closed. “I just need some time alone. To think.”

“Oh. Yeah,” Arthur says, standing up. “Yeah, of course.” It must be jarring, to have all your secrets spilled out on the ground like glass shards, ready to cut you if you’re not careful enough. “Just tell me when--of if, I guess--you want me to come back.”

“I will.”

Just as Arthur is walking out the door, Merlin calls, “There will be a spellbook on your desk when you go to your chambers, Arthur. I’d appreciate it if you looked through it.”

The door clangs shut, Arthur hiding a smile. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Arthur and Merlin realize that they really need to communicate more, Aithusa uses Arthur as a pillow, and Merlin contemplates the moral and political consequences of turning Agravaine into a frog. 
> 
> In other words, just a normal day in Camelot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> final chapter, here we go!

There is indeed a spellbook sitting on Arthur’s desk when he arrives at his chambers, the spine cracked almost to the point of breaking and the pages yellowed by time. 

God, reading it is terrifying. Like the kind he felt when he was first with Aithusa--that the moment he turned his back, the moment he was lulled into a false sense of security, he would be burned. It would be ironic--the son of the man who burned hundreds of sorcerers, being burned himself. He had barely been able to let Aithusa out of his sight, always glancing out the corner of his eye, his muscles tense and his heart thundering and his nerves on fire, until he could barely think properly.

This is much the same. Arthur wants to puke, reeling with the idiotic fear that somehow his father will find out and, from the afterlife, curse him to hell or whatever happens in stories, or that the words will dig their edges into his mind and corrupt him. But this is the least he can do for Merlin, who saved him over and over, and so he keeps flipping the pages, even as his hands shake.

The book is like the cold--at first his mind and body hate it, but slowly, his nerves grow more and more acclimated. And that’s when he truly starts to understand.

He’s always thought of magic as messy and unruly, strings of blood and death thrown at its feet in exchange for power. But it’s so much more--some rituals are strict, a thousand rules and requirements needed for them to work, but others are lax, fueled by spirit and desire more than anything. And the rituals aren’t bloody, or gory--or at least a great deal of them aren’t; there’s a slightly disturbing one about dipping your toenails in your enemy’s blood--but about how to hurry the growth of your apple tree or make sure your hair doesn’t get matted by sweat. 

Magic is a painting, Arthur thinks, drawn from both broad and carefully exact strokes of a paintbrush. The colors are bright, hurting his eyes, but he thinks--no, he knows--that, eventually, he’ll get used to them.

He shuts the book with an audible  _ thunk _ , cringing as the fragile pages threaten to crumble into dust right then and there, and resolves to visit Merlin as soon as he can. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


“There’s something I’d like to know,” Arthur says when he settles in the chair next to Merlin’s bed. Gaius had sent word that Merlin would like to see him, and Arthur had come as soon as he could, heart thundering in his chest.

“Yeah?” Merlin asks mildly. He’s still restricted to bedrest while his injuries heal, and he’s made no secret exactly what he thinks about it, his foot thumping on the mattress with irritation.

“Why did you help me so much, before?” Arthur asks. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful, I truly am. But...when you woke up, a few days ago, you were so...angry. If you thought I was going to kill you when I learned about your magic...why help me?”

Merlin’s face darkens, and he doesn’t speak for a long time. Silence hangs in the air like a thin thread, and it occurs to Arthur how raw their friendship is now, how unpredictable.

“There is a prophecy about us,” Merlin begins slowly, “about Emrys--that’s me--and the Once and Future King--that’s you, obviously--and how we are to return magic to Camelot. And even though I’d love to say I only helped you because of our friendship, part of it--especially when you were acting especially like a prat, like with Cedric--was because of the prophecy. Because I thought that eventually, somehow, you’d live long enough to bring magic back.

“But the other half--that was because you were my friend, and because, despite all appearances, you were actually a good man. And, at those times--I sort of pushed all the fear of being found out down. I’d been doing it my entire life, it wasn’t difficult. I just sort of clung to the hope that you’d be accepting, and tried not to think of it too much. But when I woke up to you pointing your sword at Aithusa...I kind of snapped. It felt like everything I ever believed was a lie, like it was collapsing on top of me, and I couldn’t stand it.”

“I’m sorry,” Arthur says. “For threatening Aithusa, I mean. And for--for acting so horrible to you, and that it took you getting kidnapped for me to see it. I know I’ve been saying it a lot over the past few days, but...I truly am sorry.”

And he is. Merlin is like an extension of Arthur’s very soul, and it had been so easy to roughhouse and take his anger out on him, because it felt like doing it on himself, and Arthur had done that for years. And if he had gone too far...well, he could always apologize tomorrow, and if that didn’t happen, there was always another tomorrow.

Until Merlin was missing, and Arthur was in pieces.

Merlin smiles softly. “It’s okay. And...I’m sorry too. For screaming at you.”

Arthur shrugs. “No--I understand. I mean, not really, since I haven’t exactly been living with the fear of a pyre my whole life...but if I was you, I would be angry too.”

The smile on Merlin’s face is a grin now. “Two apologies in a day,  _ and  _ empathizing? You’re on a roll, sire. Should I call Gaius to have a look at you?”

“I’m serious, Merlin,” Arthur says. “You’ve done a lot of things, a lot of difficult things, that I don’t know about. In the shadows. And I’d like you to know that you can...well, you can talk to me about them anytime you want. I’d like to know about them.” He hesitates. “In your own time, of course. I’m not forcing you to.”

Merlin sobers too, smile vanishing, though his eyes are gentle. “I’d like that, too. Not now, but...later. When it’s all not so new.”  _ When I’ve gotten used to the idea of not keeping so many secrets _ , goes unsaid.

Arthur nods. “And...I was thinking that we might go see Aithusa. You know, so she isn’t lonely. She seemed pretty sad to let us go back there.”

“Well, yes, anyone who was sad to see  _ you  _ go must be a bit lonely,” Merlin says lightly, though his eyes are sparkling with what looks a lot like tears. “Yeah, I’d...I’d like that.”

“Great,” Arthur says, “and stop crying, Merlin, you great  _ girl _ .”

“I’m not crying,” Merlin insists, but he is, tears pouring down his face as the weight of years and years of spying and lying and who  _ knows  _ what else crumbling atop him.

And before he knows it, Arthur is leaning across the bed and pulling Merlin into a hug. Merlin sobs into Arthur’s shirt freely, Arthur patting him on the back gently and combing a hand through his hair. He’s never done this before, never comforted someone in a way that wasn’t awkward shoulder-slapping, but now he murmurs sweet nothings, trying to let Merlin know it’s going to be alright.

“Sorry,” Merlin says, eventually, when he pulls away, frantically smearing a hand across his face.

“Don’t be,” Arthur assures softly, reaching out to wipe a few tears away from Merlin’s face. “It’s good to cry, I’ve been told.”

“I was the one who told you that, prat.” Merlin grins. “Glad to know you were paying attention to some of what I said, at least.”

“Of course,” Arthur says, grinning too.

When he leaves, his mind travels back to what Merlin said, about them being to fractions of a whole destiny. He waits for it to alarm him, that he has a future laid out ahead of him that he had no idea about until now, but all he feels is a sort of numbness.  _ One thing at a time _ , his mind tells him.  _ You can think about it later, once you’re sure Merlin is alright _ .

  
  
  
  
  


They sneak out of Camelot at dark. Of course, Arthur is king and nobody has the power to stop him from going anywhere, but he’d really rather not fend off any questions about what he’s doing in the forest at this time at night.

“How does she know when to come to you?” Arthur asks once they’re in the safety of the trees.

“Usually I call her,” Merlin answers. “But, sometimes, if I’m scared or angry enough, she can sense it and come without me asking her to. Like after the mercenaries. I was too weak to call her, but she came anyway.”

“Is it like that between every dragon and Dragonlord, then?” Merlin had told him about the Great Dragon and how he received extremely questionable advice from him. And how he is, apparently, still alive. It makes Arthur uncomfortable, but years have passed with no trace of him, so it seems Merlin’s method is working.

“No,” Merlin says. “Well, I don’t think so, since I’ve only ever met two dragons. But the...the bond between Aithusa and I is special. Because I hatched her, I think.”

Arthur nods. “Right.”

Merlin casts him a last appraising look before calling for Aithusa, and the way his voice goes deep and raspy and inhumanly loud makes chills go down Arthur’s spine. Not unpleasant ones. Just sort of  _ I wish you had given me a warning before you did that _ chills.

It only takes a few minutes for Aithusa to come, barreling out of the undergrowth with the force of a cannonball, leaping on top of Merlin and sending them both to the ground. Something loosens in Arthur’s chest at the sight of her excitedly pawing at his chest and the way Merlin laughs, free and uncontrolled and happy.

If he didn’t notice it when Merlin was sick, he certainly notices it now, how Merlin and Aithusa move together in the tandem of a well-choreographed dance. They don’t seem to realize it, but Arthur does: how when Merlin stretches, Aithusa arches her back like a cat. How when Merlin throws her a sweetmeat from his pocket, her tail twitches the exact same moment Merlin throws. Even their foot placements seem to mirror one another’s, like they are two stems from the same root. 

It’s stupid to feel jealous or lonely at a time like this, but Arthur does. His heart squeezes with a feeling he doesn’t want to decipher at how Merlin and Aithusa seem to live and move like they’re in another world.

He’s so caught up in his thoughts that he barely notices as Aithusa launches herself at him, toppling him to the ground and thumping her tail on his chest. Arthur laughs, reaching up to stroke her, the sharp ridges of her scales reminding him of the arrowheads fired at the Great Dragon. 

He pushes it out of his mind. She is nothing like him. She is pure, and innocent.

“She seems to like me more than you, Merlin,” Arthur calls.

“It’s all the extra padding around the middle,” Merlin says, nodding sagely. “She probably doesn’t get much pillows here, in the forest.”

“It’s alright to be jealous,” Arthur assures him consolingly, and laughs when Merlin calls him a clotpole. 

  
  
  
  


“It was Agravaine, wasn’t it?” Arthur asks. They’re traveling back to Camelot, and Arthur hates to take the edge off Merlin’s euphoria. But the forest, no matter how far they are from the Valley of Fallen Kings, is bringing back bad memories. 

To his credit, Merlin doesn’t even flinch. “What about Agravaine?”

“He was the one who told Morgana about us traveling through the Valley of the Fallen Kings, wasn’t he?” Arthur presses, watching Merlin carefully. “Come on, out with it. I know you don’t like him.”

“Understatement,” Merlin sings under his breath. “But yes, I think--I know, actually, that it was him. But what clued you in?”

Arthur shrugs. “I don’t know. I was just thinking, these past few days, about how I should give more credit to what you say. And I noticed how the appearance of the traitor coincided pretty much perfectly with Agravaine coming to Camelot. The rest of the Council is ancient, if they were going to defect, they would have done it already. I think I knew all along, I was just...hoping I was wrong. He’s the only family I have left.”

Merlin places a hand on his shoulder. “I am sorry about Agravaine,” he says lowly. “You deserved a better uncle. But...thanks for, you know, listening to me about him. And coming to see Aithusa. I know that wasn’t easy.”

Arthur shrugs. “Easier than I thought it would be, actually. She’s nothing like the Great Dragon.”

“I know,” Merlin says. A beat. “And, by the way, are you alright with me turning Agravaine into a frog?”

Arthur raises an eyebrow. “You can do that?”

“Well, yes,” Merlin says. “Magic has no limits. Like the time  _ you  _ were given a donkey head by that marvelous gentleman of a goblin. Such a kind, honorable being.” He sighs wistfully.

“I’ve been trying to forget that,” Arthur mutters. “Why are you so pleased with him, anyway? If I remember correctly, he accused you of being a sorcerer and got you thrown into the cells.”

“Oh, details, details,” Merlin says. “The donkey head he gave you was more than enough to make up for whatever inconveniences he caused me. But the point stands. What do you say about turning Agravaine into a frog? Just for a day, of course. Wouldn’t want to get in the way of the trial.”

Arthur laughs long and hard, agreeing, “Just for a day.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much to everyone who read and commented on this fic! it means the world <3

**Author's Note:**

> Please, help the author with her self-esteem problems by leaving a comment and a kudo :)


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